Little Boy Lost
by M. D. Jensen
Summary: A snippet of life in the house of the Stewards. Two years after his mother’s death, a young Faramir is comforted by his brother Boromir. My first LotR fic in a long while please R&R!


Disclaimer: I do not own Faramir, Boromir, Denethor, or Finduilas. Most of this is book-canon, owned by JRR Tolkien, but there may be a little movie-canon thrown in. I don't really know. Edited April 27, 2005 because by guidlines, I can no longer include Boromir's song, since I didn't write it. Sigh.

AN: There's no duplicating Tolkein's beautiful writing style, so I'm not even trying. I'm doing the best I can with keeping the dialogue period-appropriate, though.

Summary: A snippet of life in the house of the Stewards. Two years after his mother's death, a young Faramir is comforted by his brother Boromir. Written because, after this tragedy in Asia, who doesn't feel like crying? Dedicated to all the victims and especially the survivors. Please, people, find a fund to donate too, or students, organize a fundraiser with your school's service club. The people who died should at least be able to look down from wherever it is they are and know that their deaths were a uniting event within the world's community. Believe it or not, coming together to help these people could be a step towards global peace. Anyway. On with the fic.

_Little Boy Lost_

Once he had started thinking about his mother, he found he could not stop crying. Faramir, youngest son of Denethor of the house of the Stewards, sat hunched in a corner by his bedroom window, his delicate seven-year-old's body trembling. He hadn't meant to remember his mother that night… it had, in fact, been a relatively good day. His astronomy tutor said he was doing exceptionally well memorizing the constellations, and before dinner, Boromir had found some time away from his studies and training to teach his little brother some sword-fighting moves. Faramir had gone to bed happy enough, but once he blew the candles out and climbed under the quilt, it was harder to forget.

His mother, Finduilas, had died two years and one month ago. And though no one believed Faramir when he described just how much he remembered of her, he knew himself that he remembered a surprising amount. He had been only five when she died― wasted away― but he had vivid recollections of her, of her honey-colored hair and peaceful voice.

And it was still hard, years later, to go to sleep without that voice singing him there.

So he had begun to weep. Just sniffling at first, a few tears leaking into his hair. But by now he had gone to sit by the window where she used to hold him, and he was full-out crying. The quilt he had dragged off his bed to wrap himself in was pulled up under his eyes and soaked through with his tears.

He tried to be quiet about it; he didn't want to attract anyone's attention, didn't want to be seen as the poor little youngest son, pathetically mourning his dead mother. But he couldn't help it; almost everything he did, it seemed, he did noisily, and this was no exception. But he did fall silent, holding his breath even, when he heard someone knocking at his door.

At first he tried to pretend he was still asleep, praying that whoever it was would go away. But after a minute the door creaked open.

Faramir pulled up his quilt higher, over his head. _Please don't let it be Father, please don't let it be him…_

He couldn't see through the quilt, but he felt big hands lifting him off the floor and holding him to their owner's chest. The boy breathed a tiny, tremulous sigh of relief. This wasn't Father. He wouldn't have done that.

Faramir, silent now, let the blanket slip off and uncover his face. The first thing his eyes met was the emerald gaze of his older brother, Boromir. At the sight, Faramir gave a weak smile and automatically relaxed slightly in the protective arms.

"Ho, there, little one," Boromir said gently, carrying Faramir over to his bed and setting him down on it. "What's ailing you?"

"No-thing," Faramir lied in a little-boy voice.

"Is that so?" Boromir lifted his hand and swiped the tears from Faramir's cheeks with one thumb. He was smiling kindly.

Faramir felt his eyes well up again. Boromir looked so much like Mama… fair hair, soft bluegreen eyes. He envied him a little; Faramir himself was small and thin, but closer to his father's appearance in coloring, at least. He had Denethor's dark hair and grey eyes, and he didn't like it one bit.

Faramir sniffed and Boromir pulled him to his chest again, stroking his hair. The boy felt safer, at least, in his twelve-year-old brother's arms, but he couldn't help it when he began to cry again.

"Hush now, what is it?" Boromir was rubbing his brother's back in circles, and held Faramir tighter as he began to sob.

"I was… thinking about… M-mama and… I started crying… and not I can n-not… st-stop!" The boy wailed miserably, hiccupping every few words.

"Oohhh," Boromir cooed, as if he didn't know what else to say.

"I'm sorry," Faramir moaned, standing on his bed so that he would be tall enough to hide his face in his brother's hair. He felt bad for making Boromir uncomfortable, but he had been honest when he said that how that he had begun to let out his grief, he couldn't stop easily.

Boromir reached out and wrapped his arms around Faramir's waist. "Don't be sorry," he said quietly. "I miss her too."

Faramir sniffled again and looked down at Boromir. "You do?"

"Aye, of course I do."

Faramir sat down next to his brother and leaned against him sleepily. "Sometimes I see s-something, and it stirs a m-memory of her I didn't remember before." He had stopped sobbing by now, but his voice was still shaky, and his eyes and nose stung from the tears. His body felt shivery all over.

"That happens to me as well," Boromir confessed softly. "Yesterday, I came upon on of her dresses in my closet… one of the maids must have put it there mistakenly. And I remembered…" his voice broke slightly. "I remembered a song she used to find… the last time she sung it, she was wearing that dress…"

There was a distant look in Boromir's eyes. Faramir huddled closer to him. "Did you cry?" He sniffed.

"Nearly," his brother said quietly.

Faramir put his had in Boromir's lap and, feeling peaceful and protected, closed his eyes. "Sing the song for me," he requested in a small voice.

Boromir seemed a little awkward; Faramir knew that his brother wasn't much for song. But he also knew that Boromir would do it for him, if he asked.

Boromir sighed a little and began. He had a rough voice, but it was soft, like Finduilas's had been.

But just what the song was, Faramir never knew. He had lost his battle with sleep and was lost before the first line ended.

_The End_

So, like it? It was originally much longer, but that seemed like a good place to end it. Any further seemed like I was pushing it too much. Peace out, and happy 2005! Good riddance '04, I say.


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